


Scars

by coolhandjennie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Beard Watch 2018, Friendship, Gen, No Romance, but feel free to ship, cuz I sure do, wounded warriors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-02-23 03:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13180974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolhandjennie/pseuds/coolhandjennie
Summary: When Jaime was in the depths of despair after losing his hand, Brienne was his saving grace. Now the tables are turned and it's only when he tries to throw her own words back in her face that Jaime can accept the truth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Greensmilodon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greensmilodon/gifts).



> My Secret Santa gift fic to fellow J/B fangirl Greensmilodon. :D
> 
> This is a little different from my other J/B stories in that my primary focus is the physical hardships they face, not the love story. In particular I wanted to dive deeper into how the loss of his hand fundamentally changed Jaime and what his mental & emotional recovery might look like. 
> 
> From the start this fic was about healing, not romance. I was on the fence about whether or not to throw in some shippy details but I know Greensmilodon enjoys a good friend-centric J/B story and I think the fic is stronger for it. For me, half the fun of shipping is enjoying the romantic potential in moments that aren't necessarily romantic, so feel free to make any assumptions your heart desires. ;)

In spite of all the beeping machinery, Jaime’s not aware of his surroundings until he catches a whiff of stale hospital air. There’s no odor so nauseatingly unique as disinfectant and steamed vegetables. He blinks away the grogginess of sleep until a blur of pink and blue sharpens into suns and moons — Brienne’s house sigil, knit into a fleece-lined compression sock that keeps the stump of Jaime’s right wrist warm and protected. Said stump now rests in front of his face on her hospital bed, loosely cupped in the maiden’s grasp.

Jaime normally hates attention being drawn to his disability, which is why he wears a lifelike (if relatively useless) silicone prosthetic most of the time, but he loved the little hoodie so much that Brienne made another in Lannister red and gold for his Winterfest gift last year. Tonight, it’s a reminder of why he’s in public without his fake hand in the first place.

He was sleeping fitfully in his King’s Landing apartment when the call came: Brienne was being evacuated from the riverlands to Baelor-Grace Military Medical Center after suffering what was described to Jaime, her emergency contact, as a “traumatic laceration” to the face. That was two days ago. Tyrion stopped by this morning with a change of clothes and Jaime’s prosthetic hand. His brother’s surprise was obvious when Jaime didn’t rush to put it on. Somehow it felt disingenuous to hide his scars when Brienne’s were exposed for all to see. Besides the deep and jagged wound splitting her left cheek, she suffered a nasty variety of cuts and bruises and a broken right arm. Leaving his stump exposed, even within the confines of Brienne’s hospital room, felt like an act of solidarity and, if he’s being honest, rebellion. Against who or what, he’s not quite sure.

Pressure on his stump draws Jaime’s attention. He looks up to find Brienne’s eyes open for the first time in days, her lackluster gaze trained on the wall in front of her. Her thumb gently brushes over his stump as a single tear spills down her cheek. Her eyes are closed by the time he sits upright and she’s asleep before he speaks.

Brienne remains oblivious throughout the minutes Jaime sits unmoving, staring at her hand and his stump. She doesn’t see him flag down the night duty nurse or stand patiently in the hall while a brigade of medical staff descend to check her vitals and change her bandages; doesn’t see his expression when the ragged wound on her face is exposed, won’t know the absence of pity to be found there, only the dispassionate compassion of a fellow broken soldier. Brienne sleeps through it all until it’s once again just the two of them. She doesn’t see Jaime pull his chair closer to the bed, lay his head down beside her hip, place her hand over the back of his neck, and join her in slumber, but that’s the position she finds them in when she opens her eyes the following morning.

Jaime sits up with startled alertness, as if he’s sensed her wakefulness.

“You look like shit,” she states flatly, managing a dim smirk though it obviously pains her.

“How do you feel?” Jaime asks, then winces at his stupidity. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

Brienne takes a moment to assess her situation. “I’m not in pain but I’m not _not_ in pain. More like extreme discomfort with fuzzy edges.” She reaches out to touch the thick stubble on his usually clean shaven jaw and frowns at the dark circles under his eyes. “How long have I been here?”

“A couple days. But you were unconscious longer than. What do you…Do you remember what happened?” he asks gently.

Brienne swallows dryly and shrugs. “The Humvee exploded. I took a faceful of shrapnel. Renly died. That about sums it up, right?”

Jaime nods, uncomfortable. Brienne isn’t the type to get hysterical but her eerily flat demeanor is unsettling. The wench usually has more fire in her than this.

“You guys were pinned down under heavy fire so there was a delay getting you medical treatment and the wound got infected. You were feverish for a few days, in and out of consciousness.” He swallows thickly. “This is the longest you’ve been awake since it happened. Sutures come out today or tomorrow. You’ll have a helluva battle scar. There you go again, trying to outdo me,” he teases weakly, waving his stump at her. Brienne makes no acknowledgment of his lame joke, not even to roll her eyes at its lameness. This is not a good sign.

“Not like it’ll make much of a difference, right?” She’s being rhetorical and doesn’t wait for his answer. “Either way, it shouldn’t have any bearing on my return to duty. If my face didn’t interfere with the job before, no reason it should now.” 

Jaime frowns. “There’s a bit more more to it than that, though, right? I know you’re tough Brienne but hells, you’ve been through a lot. Renly—“

The hiss of her sharply indrawn breath cuts him off. “We’re at war, Jaime. People die.”

“He was your commander, Brienne. Your friend. Kissing the boo boo isn’t enough to make it go away, I’m sorry to say.”

Normally this is the point where Brienne attempts to rip him a new one but just as Jaime realizes it probably isn’t the time and place to get her all riled up, the wind goes out of her sails. “Yeah yeah, PTSD, blah blah blah,” she sighs, closing her eyes and effectively shutting him out. “Alright, so I see a therapist to get me through the psych eval. There’s no reason I can’t be back on active duty once my arm’s out of this cast.”

There’s no arguing with her when she digs in her heels like this, Jaime knows from long experience. His anxiety abates as her words penetrate his sleep addled brain. She’s eager to forge ahead instead of wallowing in self pity. _That’s good, right?_ he thinks. Better than his descent into near madness at the loss of his hand a year and a half ago. A descent prevented, in large part, by the pig stubborn woman before him. Physically, the worst is behind her. Emotionally, the other shoe hasn’t even begun to drop.

A light squeeze around his stump tells Jaime that while Brienne might lash out, she’s not pushing him away. He’ll take that as a good sign. As crazy as he’s driven her in the past, Jaime doesn’t actually know what Brienne looks like at the end of her rope but he’s pretty sure he’s about to find out. She deserves a lot more than him in her corner but he’ll be there no matter what. That’s about the only thing Jaime _does_ know.

He covers her hand with his and returns the squeeze, reassuring them both with his trademark Lannister confidence, “You got this.”


	2. Chapter 2

Two months later Brienne’s out of the hospital and just as stubborn as ever. Now that her cast is off, she’s chomping at the bit to get back to work. She dutifully complies with the daily wound care protocol prescribed by her doctors and attends weekly therapy sessions at Baelor-Grace but she’s refusing to consult with a plastic surgeon. Once the wound completely heals, cosmetic surgery can minimize the scar on her face but she’s taking a “fuck the world” stance. She won’t even consider coming to Jaime’s monthly support group for wounded veterans, even though she’s the one who convinced him to go in the first place.

Half the things he wants to say to her die in his throat. Jaime knows better than most that truth and logic are ineffective weapons against despair. He remembers too clearly the rage her kindness ignited when she tried to soothe him after the loss of his hand. Eventually his vitriol cracked her cool exterior and Brienne snapped on him.

“You’ve lived your entire life sheltered by wealth and privilege and now this thing, this terrible thing has happened to you, but Jaime, you’re alive — you’re _alive_ , godsdammit! How many empty seats were on that transport home? I’m not making light of your loss, I’m really not, but do you think their families would care if those soldiers came back without a fucking hand?”

“Depends on the family,” he’d snarked. “Lannisters would probably skew the data.”

“For fuck’s sake, this isn’t about them, it’s about _you_. You’ve spent years surrounded by the worst of humanity, voluntarily running headfirst into danger, and now that you’ve had your first real taste of hardship you want to curl up and die? You’re a lot of things, Lannister, but I never pegged you for a coward.”

Typical Brienne, never pulling any punches. Jaime can laugh at the memory now but he’d been gutted at the time. It was like she dared him to get better. God knows Jaime Lannister never backed down from a challenge in his life. Which is part of why he’s so frustrated right now.

Jaime feels completely helpless. There’s no way he’s giving up on Brienne, obviously, but he can’t figure out how to talk to her. Rationality goes out the window in times of trauma. Throw in a fresh batch of PTSD on top of lifelong insecurities and even the most pragmatic woman would struggle with what Brienne is dealing with. She’d thrown his privilege in his face but the truth is, Brienne grew up in similar circumstances; the difference being that while she got the better deal in the dad department, Jaime’s life was positively charmed compared to her childhood of ridicule and derision.

Brienne is no stranger to hardship. She might be idealistic but she’s certainly not naive. Jaime likes to think she’s confident enough that people’s judgements no longer matter but he knows better. Words are more than wind; they can cut like a knife. Even worse is the staring, as he’s come to find out for himself, though she’s been dealing with it most of her life. It’ll be a cold day in hell before Brienne lets anyone think they can make a dent in her armor but Jaime knows where the chinks are. He dedicated the early part of their acquaintance to revealing them, back when they only knew (and hated) each other by reputation. Then tragedy struck and when Jaime was at his lowest, Brienne literally picked him up and carried him until he could stand on his own. How is he going to do that for her? Will she even let him? Is he even capable? 

Jaime tries to put himself in her shoes, which is not his strong suit, but a disfiguring injury and Brienne’s pep talks have gone a long way toward developing his empathy. What will life be like for an ugly girl made uglier? It’s second nature for Brienne to try and make herself invisible in public, for all the good it does her, but now there’s always some asshat gawking at the gash on her face. She shrugs it off but he can see the toll it’s taking. “What does it matter?” was her listless response when he finally broached the subject. The wench is not in fighting form and it’s depressing the hell out of him. It’s also starting to make him mad. She pushed him to do all kinds of crap he didn’t want to do when he was pissed at the world, and now she just gives up without a fight? Not on his fucking watch. But how can he make her see?

Inspiration strikes in the middle of the night and keeps Jaime awake with anxiety. He’s a jittery mess by the time he gets to Brienne’s for their standing morning coffee date. As usual he brings the coffee (his fourth) and she provides the sweets. Brienne raises an eyebrow when she sees the order written on the side of his cup.

“Decaf? What’s wrong?”

Normally Jaime taunts and teases his way around whatever’s bothering him but today he’s all business. He inhales deeply before taking the plunge.

“So, it’s my one year anniversary with the veteran's support group and they’re doing this Winterfest potluck thing for friends and family and they asked me to speak. Like, tell my story or whatever.” Jaime’s looking everywhere except her face but he can see Brienne’s eyes go wide. He rarely discusses his group so this is kind of a big deal. “So I told them I’d do it and…and I really hope that you’ll come.” His left hand shakes as he takes a deep swig of wretched bitterness.

“Jaime, that’s—I mean yeah, _yes_ , of course I’ll come, you know I will.” She looks down with a blush, the jagged seam of her scar a lighter hue than the rest of her face. “Not to sound condescending or anything but…I’m really proud of you.” She reaches across her small kitchen table to awkwardly hug him.

Jaime’s heart swells as it always does when she expresses her belief in him. He doesn’t know if he can instill the same feeling in her but he’s got to try. Ultimately he made this decision for himself but only after realizing that the most effective way to help Brienne right now is to take care of himself. Even if that means subjecting himself to public speaking, which he typically avoids at all costs.

“When’s the meeting?” she asks.

“Tomorrow night.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jaime’s veteran support group usually has a good crowd—war is big business in Westeros and business is booming—but with friends and family added to the mix, the sept basement is jam packed this month. Once all the food is deposited on a long table at the back of the room and everyone’s settled into a folding chair, the group leader, Davos, calls the meeting to order and introduces Jaime. 

Jaime hates speaking in public but when it’s unavoidable, he prefers to coast on bullshit and charm. He’s got a lot to say today, though, and doesn’t want to leave anything out, so he spent last night and all day putting his thoughts on paper. _Gods bless dictation software_ , he thinks as he makes his way to the podium. He might not be able to tell Brienne what to do any more than she could make him listen, but he can remind her of what she did for him.

“Hey everyone, I’m Jaime, long time listener, first time sharer.” He waves his silicone prosthetic. “I lost my dominant hand about a year and a half ago when my unit was ambushed outside Maidenpool. I’m a sniper, so my hand was literally my livelihood. I _was_ that hand, so losing it was basically like losing my identity. For a long, long time my job was the only worthwhile part of my life, so things were pretty shitty at the beginning. I’m an asshole to begin with, so it was a real treat to be around me those first few weeks.” Jaime relaxes at the easy laugh he gets from the group.

“Luckily I know some really stubborn people who aren’t so easy to scare off.” He pauses for a sip of coffee, looking at the crowd but avoiding Brienne. “I was at the end of my rope, I really was, when a friend who takes zero of my shit pointed out a few key truths. Identity crisis notwithstanding, I’m in good physical health even if I’m a hand short. I’m fortunate enough to have the financial resources for state-of-the-art therapies and prosthetics—something too many of us struggle with. She reminded me that this was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me in an otherwise charmed life, so I should sac up and get over myself.” He can _feel_ Brienne’s eyebrows shooting up into her hairline. “Well, she might have phrased it a little nicer. But not much,” he adds dryly.

“She wasn’t wrong, though. I _did_ need to get over myself. I’m the type of guy who does the opposite of what he’s told because who the fuck is anyone to tell me what to do, even if they _are_ doctors—I told you I was an asshole, remember? At first I didn’t even want to get fitted for a prosthetic. The hand was gone, why sugarcoat things? I came around but honestly, it’s not good for much except keeping the gawkers at bay. I can’t pull a trigger with it, can’t jerk off with it, so really, what’s the point?” He contemplates the object at the end of his wrist. “I’ve been railing against expectations since I was a kid and that’s been really hard to let go of. In my father’s eyes, the loss of my hand is his greatest failure. Wouldn’t want the old man thinking any improvements were for his sake, right? Fucked up, I know. _She_ certainly thought so. 

“She was the voice in my head for a long time, kind of like my conscience. Sometimes she still is. When I didn’t want to be better, it was her voice telling me to keep going. I wanted to give up at every obstacle but there she was, rooting for me, encouraging me. It took her forever to convince me to give this whole ‘support group’ thing a shot, because how could _anyone_ understand my pain?” He rolls his eyes.

“It took six months till I was ready to walk through these doors, another fourteen to get up here. She knew I had to come to terms with this shit for myself. She couldn’t make me go to PT or get fitted for a pros or talk to a therapist, but this group was the one thing she pushed. She said ‘Go for me, stay for you.’ So I did, because sometimes it’s easier to just give in and do what she tells me.” He laughs with the group. “Really, though, it’s because when you’re at rock bottom and you have people who care enough to stick by you, you listen to them when you can’t trust yourself.”

Jaime pauses for a steadying breath. “My final medical hearing is coming up, so the temp hold on my duty status is up too. I’ve put in my time, I can retire if I want, but…” He shakes his head and shrugs. “Time to shit or get off the pot, right? I’d have to learn a new specialty, obviously. Which begs a lot of boring questions, like what if I’m not smart enough to learn something new? What if I wash out? What if my best years are behind me and I never find my way? Honestly, I don’t know if I can do it but I can’t really see myself as a civilian, either. Not yet, anyway.”

He looks at his prosthetic hand again. “Something happened recently to help me put things in perspective. It’s like all of a sudden, I can finally see that the only thing stopping me from returning to active duty is my own bullshit. If there’s a way for me to move forward, past the disappointment and the expectations, why wouldn’t I take it, except to punish myself for things beyond my control?”

Here, Jaime looks straight into Brienne’s eyes. “If I’m gonna heal, I need to take advantage of every opportunity that comes my way. Otherwise, I’m just full of shit. It took a lot of tough love to get that through my head. And it’s not because I’m afraid people will be disappointed in me or because I think it’s what they want. I know what I need to do, I just didn’t want to do it. I was scared shitless.” He shakes his head. “I’m done with that. No one can make you do what you’re not ready to do, and you’re the only one who knows when you’re ready. But you also know when you’re lying to yourself.

“That’s what it comes down to, I think—honesty. You have to be honest with yourself and if you’re lucky, there’s someone willing to hear your truth, no matter how hard or painful or ugly it is. That’s something I learned in this room. In a lot of ways, my life is probably better now than it was before. I’m a better person. I’ve earned the trust and friendship that I didn’t deserve before, and I’ve learned to accept that what’s good for me and what’s right for me can actually be the same thing.”

He gives Brienne another pointed look, satisfied by the blush creeping up her stalwart face. He returns his attention to the room. “Thanks for listening.”


	4. Chapter 4

Davos leads the group in brief applause and announces a short break before the pot luck begins. Jaime makes his way to Brienne in the ensuing chaos. She looks as drained as he feels. They sit in silence for a few moments, the droning bustle in the background creating a veil of privacy.

“You really decided? About going back?” she finally asks.

He knows she thinks returning to duty is the best thing for him but she’d never say so to his face. Jaime nods. “I called the ol’ battle ax myself. Turns out Intelligence Corps made an inquiry into my status a while back, so I guess we’ll see where that goes. My brother is gonna piss himself laughing when he hears _that_.”

Brienne’s expression is mockingly stern. “General Stark will be heartbroken to lose you from her squadron, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, she sounded positively devastated.”

They share a wry smile. Jaime looks at his prosthetic hand. Only now does it strike him as ridiculous that he’s ever felt self conscious in a room full of amputees. He reaches down and deftly detaches it from his arm, rolling the silicone liner off his stump and exposing it to the cool air. As usual he experiences an odd sensation of relief, as if his phantom limb has been confined and is now free to stretch. It feels good having it out in the open, literally and figuratively.

Brienne’s eyes widen. “You always wear your hand in public,” she whispers.

Jaime shrugs. “Doesn’t feel that important anymore.” He massages his stump in contemplative silence for a moment. “Half the time it feels like it’s still there. Somehow, the fake hand seems less real than the missing hand.” He smirks at the irony and takes a deep breath to steel himself. “Sometimes keeping it covered feels like a way to pretend it never happened. Like some bizarre version of out of sight, out of mind. But covering it up doesn’t change the truth of what happened. Nothing can.” He brushes his thumb across the scar on her face. “Our scars might be a badge of honor, Bri, but if we wear them to punish ourselves, isn’t that doing more harm than good?”

Tears fill Brienne’s eyes but she doesn’t cry.

“You can’t erase the past, I’m not asking you to. I’m just asking you to hear what the doctors have to say.” Jaime gives her a small smile. “Go for me, stay for you.”

Brienne rolls her eyes but can’t help smiling back. “Way to throw my words back in my face, geez.”

“You know me, wench. I’m not afraid to fight dirty if the end justifies the means.”

She stares intently at his stump, now cradled in her palms. Jaime holds his breath, hoping his gamble pays off. He wasn’t even planning on coming to the pot luck, let alone speaking, until he realized it could be a way to get through to Brienne. That it marks a turning point in his own recovery is just another example of how she makes him a better man, even when she’s not trying.

“You’ll come with me,” she says at last, still not looking at him. It’s not a question.

Jaime’s throat is suddenly thick with gratitude. “You couldn’t keep me away.” He grasps her hand. “We got this,” he says firmly.

Brienne nods in agreement, meeting his eyes at last. His hand, her face, their future in the army—Jaime means all of it and his confidence is supreme. It’s the most like his old self he’s felt since losing his hand.

“Now come on,” he says, pulling her up out of her chair, “I know for a fact there’s at least three different mac and cheeses on that table and I intend to try all of them.”

Brienne laughs and they descend upon the banquet, hand in hand, them against the world.


End file.
